Secret Life
by x-the-rising-x
Summary: Everything she had tried to shut out and ignore from that fateful day five years ago, has all of a sudden come rushing back. The manila envelope sits on her counter, taunting her. He won’t tell Lucas. He won’t tell Lucas. Will he? BL


_**A/N: **_okay this is ridiculously emo. But Corey helped me out with the idea in the beginning, and it just sort-of took off from there. You will all hate me for the ending, but oh well. Spoilers have been pissing me off so much today, so a little angst is necessary. Oh, and just so you know, there _will _be a sequel, but one that is much more BP (friendship) than BL.

The title and lyrics are from the song Secret Life, by Thriving Ivory. I highly suggest downloading it.

And I know I need to update Soon Enough. I know I do…

**Secret Life**

_Hangs up her coat like always_

_Wouldn't have it any other way_

_The TV glows in her apartment_

_Much better than most company_

"I know what happened back then."

She doesn't really know how that's possible, considering no one – not Nathan, or Haley, or Peyton, or Lucas, or even she _herself, _really knows what happened back then. So she laughs and shrugs.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The manila envelope lies on the table between them, and she's already gone over in her head a million times what it could contain, each guess being worse than the last. But it's late out, and she had promised to meet him here in this sketchy diner on the edge of time, and she supposes that it's just her recent more paranoid nature kicking in.

"I think you do." He leans in.

She had never really assumed that Julian was a bad guy. She can see it in his eyes. These past few weeks she's stuck behind Peyton, because that's what best friends do. To be honest, he just looks heartbroken. Like he's carrying around this pain and regret of what he and Peyton had the potential to be. She knows the feeling.

Brooke shifts uncomfortably. "Look, Julian – it's late. Can you just cut the crap and tell me what you asked me here for?"

He sighs. "I'm not trying to stir up trouble. But I read the book."

"I would hope so. Considering you're making a movie about it."

He nods to the envelope. "Open it."

She does. Not because she wants to condone this shady behavior of his, but because she's genuinely interested in what dirty information he's supposedly dug up on her. Her eyes scan the contents for two seconds, perhaps three. In those few moments, a nasty, sickened feeling settles in the pit of her stomach.

"Where did you find these?" she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

"That's not important. What's important is that you deal with this. Judging by the book, Lucas had no idea what was going on."

Brooke shoves the documents back into the envelopes. "This is _none _of your business."

Julian sighs. "I know. Originally, in my jealousy-induced haze, I was going to show these to Lucas." She freezes. "But then I realized that wasn't my place."

"It really isn't. At all. Now if you'll excuse me." Brooke stands, and moves to leave, but Julian grabs her arm.

"Brooke." He lowers his voice. "Having a miscarriage is _nothing _to be ashamed of. You should really tell him. It might bring some light to what was going on with you when you guys broke up."

"No! Don't you get it?" she asks, yanking her arm away. "I've spent five years trying to bury this, to all of a sudden have you dig it up again. I don't _ever _want to see you again."

And then she's gone.

_Is something on your mind?_

_Hands are cold as ice_

---

_You dance like a queen_

_In spite of all the things you never wanted_

_When you're left out in the cold_

_You dance like a queen_

_Your silhouette is still my reflection_

_You speak to me in riddles_

_You speak to me in riddles_

Tears of frustration spill from her eyes as she dons the trench coat and steps into her knee high boots. It's nearly ten, and she could easily just slip under her covers, close her eyes, and try to forget everything that's happened this evening. But she can't. She won't.

Everything she had tried to shut out and ignore from that fateful day four years ago, has all of a sudden come rushing back. The manila envelope sits on her counter, taunting her. He won't tell Lucas. He _won't _tell Lucas.

Will he?

She shakes her head. She tries to forget. Picking up her car keys, she moves to the door. But then there's a knock.

It's him. _Of course _it's him.

"Hey Brooke. Listen, is Peyton here? I've been looking for her all night."

"No." She looks down. "Sorry, I haven't seen her."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." _Everything. _"Nothing. I promise. Now if you'll excuse me," she mutters, stuffing the manila envelope into her bag.

"Brooke." He grabs onto her arm. She flinches. "Tell me what's wrong." When she doesn't respond, and simple attempts to stare him down, his eyes shift to the envelope. "Does it have anything to do with this?" he asks, pulling it from her bag.

"No!" Her answer comes much too soon, and it is all too obvious that she's lying. He looks confused, and judging by the completely panicked expression she has, Brooke isn't exactly surprised.

He sighs. "I don't want to have to open this."

"Then don't."

"Then _tell _me what's wrong!" He's forceful now, as if that will somehow will her to tell him. But she won't. She can't. Because then everything she's worked for over the past five years will suddenly fall apart. Her denial, her delicately put together composure, her hard façade. Gone, in the blink of an eye. Or rather, the break of a seal.

"I can't." She tries to pull the envelope away from him, but he steps back and opens it. "Lucas! DON'T!"

Too late. He's already scanning the documents, and she shuts her eyes. It's all a dream. It's all a dream. How could everything seem so composed one minute, and then fall apart the next?

He swallows. His hands begin to tremble. "Brooke."

"I told you not to open it," she whispers.

"How could you not tell me?" he yells, throwing the medical records to the floor.

"Tell you? And risk both of us feeling like shit for _months? _Trust me, It's better that you didn't know."

He shakes his head and Brooke can feel the beginning of a conversation she does not want to have coming on. But before it can happen – before either of them can let their guard down – she tries to push past him.

"I have to go."

"Where?" he asks, challenging her.

"To see Owen," she mutters, not meeting his eyes. But he places his hand against the closed door so she can't open it. She clutches her trench coat around her more tightly. And then he stares her down – with a beady gaze that almost scares her. It's so unlike him.

Lucas reaches forward, slipping off the shoulder of her coat. The lacy black material of her bra strap appears and he lets out a hollow laugh. "That's great, Brooke. Real great."

She shrugs the coat back on. "Just go, Lucas," she whispers, looking down to the floor.

"Fine. Go slut it up, Brooke. Whatever helps you forget."

She looks up at him, as if shocked he would say that to her.

"_Pretty skanky move, Brooke." _

But it's true. She's seeking asylum in the one thing she used to _always _use to forget. Sex. Sex with someone she doesn't love, or care for. Someone she isn't even remotely interest in. Simply because it'll numb the pain.

He leaves before she can even respond to his comment. And she just stands there – even after the headlights of his car fade away down the driveway. She's starting to realize that numbing the pain is pretty much impossible now.

_Puts on her face like breathing_

_Another day in black and red_

_Coat is old, car seat's freezing_

_And a radio that just won't play_

---

_You dance like a queen_

_In spite of all the things you never wanted_

_When you're left out in the cold_

_You dance like a queen_

_Your silhouette is still my reflection_

_You speak to me in riddles_

_You speak to me in riddles_

She steps into his bedroom and slams the door. He looks up.

She's still wearing the trench coat, but not for long. He stands, angrily, from his desk chair, and takes two steps towards her. "What are you doing here, Brooke?"

She looks at him – straight at him – and her eyes bore in to his like knives. He hasn't seen her look this pained and hurt and sad and confused since the day they broke up. But he doesn't have much time to ponder the faraway look in her eyes, because all of a sudden, she's untying the trench coat.

It falls to the floor, and Brooke Davis is now standing there, more vulnerable with him than she has been in a very long time. On instinct, he looks away, as if trained to do so. But then, despite his brain screaming at him to stop, he looks back.

Her body is toned – her skin creamy – just the way he remembers it. The black lace of her bra and panties pay a sharp contrast to the look of innocence and defenselessness she's currently holding in her eyes.

The vulnerability soon turns to determination. She stares at him, as if challenging him to object – as if challenging him to protest her sudden forwardness. And when he doesn't – when he suddenly comes preoccupied with her strangely blemished skin that he's just noticed – she begins to speak.

"A month ago, a man came into my store and attacked me. This," she points to the long, faded bruise on her side. "This is where he kicked me eleven times. This," she runs her hand across the light pink scars right above her belly button. "This is where he scratched me so hard that, when I woke up after passing out, I was still bleeding. And this," she rests her hands on her abdomen. "This is where I held your child for twelve weeks. It happened 5 years ago and hurts more than _any _of the other scars."

She speaks to him in a strained voice, as if it's taking all her strength to tell him this. A tear slips out of her eye as they stand there in the longest, most uncomfortable silence he's ever been in. A sudden rush of emotion meets him, and he doesn't want to admit it – but he's close to crying as well.

He reaches down and rests his hand on top of hers. She flinches slightly under his touch, but Lucas suspects that it's because it's been so long since he's touched her this way, and they both know it's not nearly as platonic as it should be.

He kneels down, and places his lips softly against her stomach. She's crying more now. And Lucas knows it's not just grieving over a child she lost years ago, but also because of what tonight means. He knows, and she knows, that there's no way she'll make it out of his house without him touching her even more than he his now. Which means the end of his engagement, and her friendship, with the girl they both thought he would end up with.

When he stands up again, his hand doesn't leave hers. She looks at him as if she's scared – terrified – to be doing this with him, but also like she doesn't care. And clearly she doesn't, because now she does the one thing he _never _would expect her to do.

She kisses him.

He tastes alcohol on her lips – and he knows she can taste it on his own as well. But it's okay, because she didn't _sound _drunk when she was speaking to him, and he'd only had a bit of vodka. He had just needed to numb the pain. Something Brooke used to do – and has clearly started to do again.

All of a sudden, she pulls away. She touches her lips with her fingers, as if shocked that she had just kissed him. "I'm…I'm sorry."

She's sorry. Well he isn't. Gently, he takes his hand off of her stomach, and then places it on her hip. Brooke looks down – shocked and terrified that he's touching her still. Tonight – in his bedroom, where she has always felt more than safe – she's frightened of what's to come.

He kisses her.

He kisses her to make her forget, and pushes her backwards until he has her up against the wall. His tongue slips into her mouth, and she gives into the temptation. With an animal-like fervor, she reaches to the hem of his t-shirt and yanks it over his head.

He presses his torso into hers. She had thought that when she kissed him, that would be enough. That it could be a simple goodbye – an apology for what happened years ago. Instead, it was a door opening – a sudden ache to feel more. A sudden need for him – for all of him.

Lucas grabs her wrists. "Tell me what you want," he mutters in a voice that is forceful and pained. She locks her eyes with his, and he's staring at her as if daring her to look away. As if daring her to stop him.

She doesn't. But she doesn't respond earlier. Just runs her hands up his bare torso and to his cheeks, until she's cupping his face in her hands. She lets out a long, shaky breath, and he silences her by running his lips once more against her own – and meeting her tongue in a long ferocious clash – a battle for control.

He reaches down and slides his hand up her bare leg. In a motion that is bold for him, he hooks his finger around her underwear and pulls them down. She gasps out, as her hands move to the zipper on his jeans. She breaks the kiss, moving quickly as if slowing down will suddenly help her to remember how irrational they are being.

Somehow she falls out of her boots, and her bra, and he has kicked off his boxers. He holds her there, flush up against his body, forehead resting against her own. He reaches up and cups her cheek – tries to brush away the tears that are falling rapidly from her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. She nods, and he reaches back – his hand getting tangled in her short hair. "I need you."

She nods again, and in an instant, he's picked her up. Her long, bare, tan legs wrap around his waist and when he enters her, she cries out. It's a release – a sound of pleasure, and pain, and satisfaction, and liberation. He presses her farther into the wall, as if attempting to bury himself deeper inside of her.

Lucas pulls out of her, ever so slightly. Her walls are so tight around him, and he has to wonder when the last time she did this was. Not with him, but in general. When he plunges himself back in her, she bites her lip and he runs sloppy kisses down her neckline and collarbone.

"Luke…" she shuts her eyes and moans out into the hot skin of his shoulder. He mutters an incoherent reply and continues his motions. His thrusts get quicker, more desperate, as the tension builds inside both of them.

"God, I've missed you," he groans against her lips.

For minutes, the room is filled with their heavy breathing – and her moans and heavy screams. When it ends – when they arrive at that mutual release as he finally spills inside of her, it's only an afterthought as he realizes they might not be protected.

He can't ask her, though. Because she's crying, still, and he can't figure out whether she regrets what they've just done. He doesn't. And he _knows _that he should. He's just ruined everything. And yes, she has too. But she was clearly emotionally instable, and he should have stepped in and comforted her, instead of just fucking her up against her bedroom wall.

"I'm sorry," he says again, pulling out of her, and setting her down gently. Only this time, the apology isn't about the miscarriage. It's not about the thing she was afraid to tell him for five years. It's not about the horrible experience she had to go through at a mere 18 years old.

The apology is about tonight. _Remember tonight, for it is the beginning of always. _The beginning of always. The beginning of the end. The beginning of a web of wretchedly complicated repercussions.

She pushes him back, as if horrified and disgusted to be near him. And she won't meet his eyes, as if she's embarrassed. Which is funny, really, because they've just shared one of the most intimate moments of his life. And she's rushing to leave.

"Brooke." He stands there, completely naked, as her cheeks flush, and she bends down, covering her body in the trench coat. Her bruises and scars disappear behind black material, and she hurriedly grabs her undergarments and boots, which had been previously discarded on the floor.

"I…I have to go," she mutters, pulling on the boots.

"Brooke!" He tries to reach out to her – to grab onto her arm, but she's too quick for him. She pulls away.

"I have to go."

And she does.

_Is something on your mind?_

_Hands are cold as ice she says_

_Tell me about your secret life_

_And all the things you've seen_

_Tell me what you think of me_

---

_You dance like a queen_

_In spite of all the things you never wanted_

_When you're left out in the cold_

_You dance like a queen_

_Your silhouette is still my reflection_

Last year, five people jumped off Rockaway Peak – the cliff at the edge of town where rock meets beach and ocean. It juts out of the sand about a hundred feet into the air. At high tide – you hit the water and the rocks. At low tide – you hit the sand and the rocks.

A month later, Lucas finds himself here – drunk and depressed. It's high tide, and nearly midnight. He's been up here for three hours, and has made his way through four beers. The alcohol has clouded his mind, and now he's starting to realize that maybe this isn't such a bad idea after all.

"What are you doing, Lucas?" she almost has to yell above the wind, and he turns, surprised by her presence.

Brooke's standing there – about 20 feet away from him – clearly upset, and watching him like she's afraid he's going to do exactly what's on his mind.

"My engagement is over," he says, staring up at the stars as though they will bring him answers. "Your friendship with Peyton – ruined." He sighs. "It's all my fault."

_It's all over. _Peyton had found out. There had been fighting, yelling, hitting and crying, among all three of them. Nathan and Haley were slightly disgusted, but more confused, by the resurgence of the triangle, and tried to say impartial.

Brooke shakes her head. "Do _not _say that, Lucas. There was no way you – "

"I could have stopped it!" he yells, clearly frustrated. "Before everything got blurry and complicated."

"Everything was _always _complicated. We just buried it all!"

"I can't do it anymore, Brooke."

"What are you _talking _about?"

"I hate myself for what I did to Peyton, and to you. I can't deal with it."

"Lucas." Brooke takes a step forward and speaks in a warning tone. "What are you doing?"

"It ends tonight."

"Lucas!" she screams out – her sobs filling the air. "_Don't do this!_" She clutches her sweater around her tightly and steps as close as she can to him on the slippery rock façade – but she's still yards away. "You're drunk. You're not thinking clearly." He can tell that she's trying to level her voice – trying to reason with him.

He won't have it.

He reaches back and throws the empty bottle into the night – where he imagines it falls into the thrashing sea below them. "I'm sorry…_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." _He takes a step closer to the edge.

"I'm _pregnant!"_ She screams out over the wind. He freezes, and everything quiets down. The sound of the waves crashing below him dies out. The harsh wind disappears. The only thing he can hear is the brunette – yelling to him amidst a flood of tears. "I'm _pregnant, _Lucas! And I need you. I need you to come down. _Please."_

Her pleas bore into him and grab a hold of his heart. He screws his eyes shut and wonders when things got so fucked up. But he won't look at her. He _can't _look at her.

"Lucas. _Luke. _I _can't _do this alone. Please. _Please."_

_I can't do this alone. _

He turns. She's sobbing. She looks terrified. She looks lost. She looks scared. And he _hates himself _for making her feel this way. So he nods.

"Okay." He surrenders. "Okay."

"Okay? You'll come down?" She lets out a short laugh of relief and rubs her eyes on her sleeve.

He nods, and stands from the small boulder he's sitting on. "Okay."

He faces the ocean – the dark horizon and the bleak and quick end to his life that he had been contemplating. And he smiles – a bit in spite of himself. When he turns around, he'll face his real future.

But then something happens. Something neither he nor she had ever expected. And this is where it ends – on this windy night in the middle of November – when just a month ago, their lives had seemed so normal.

He trips.

_You speak to me in riddles_

_You speak to me in riddles_


End file.
